


No One Leaves (And No One Will)

by theLiterator



Series: Welcome Home [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, League of Assassins - Freeform, Reunions, Secrets, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 17:59:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11041350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theLiterator/pseuds/theLiterator
Summary: Dick wakes up.





	No One Leaves (And No One Will)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pentapus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentapus/gifts).



Dick hadn’t been lucid in _days_ when he woke up, so the fact that everything in his cell was slightly different didn’t worry him overmuch.

Ra’s had, after all, really enjoyed making sure his minions were practicing all of their very best mind games on him, so waking up to the same walls but a thick pallet instead of scraps of straw under him wasn’t really notable except for how, for the first time in… a very, very long time, he was almost _warm_.

It took a bit of shifting to realize that he must have had a break from the continuous torture, because he could breathe easily, and his skin didn’t smart and his joints didn't ache the way they had from stress positions and the damage from blunt weapons and knives.

He forced himself to sit up instead of just lying there on his newly comfortable sleeping place, and when he did a blanket slipped down his front and he groped at it, squinting in the half-light of the cell to try to figure out what the hell it was.

He’d gotten new clothes before (undyed linen that made the fact that he was a prisoner obvious against the sea of blood-reds and blacks the League wore), so that wasn’t new, but _this_.

It was soft against his fingertips, but he kind of figured everything he touched right now would feel soft, since his hands felt rough and clumsy.

It was covered with elaborate embroidery, which probably meant something, and it was made out of what he’d be willing to guess was cashmere, and it wasn’t a blanket.

The sleeves were long and loose and something about the shape of them pinged on his memories, but when he tried to figure it out, he couldn’t-- everything seemed sort of fuzzy and far away, though he vaguely remembered feeling… happy?

It all seemed super unlikely, to be honest, but he thought, maybe, if the garment… the robe? Reminded him of feeling good, it couldn’t be all _that_ bad.

He stood up properly to shrug into the robe, and it settled around him, warm and too-large, and he could smell something bright like mint or rosemary lingering on the fabric.

Of course it wasn’t exactly easy to launder cashmere or lambswool or whatever this had been made of, probably, so it would smell like something.

He was just lucky it didn’t smell like blood or poison, given his current surrounds.

He sat back down carefully and wrapped up as tightly as he could, tucking his bare feet up under the edge and resolving to sleep as much as possible until whatever the hell Ra’s wanted to do to him next started happening.

***

When Dick woke again, there was a tray on the floor near his head, and he could smell _food_ , for the first time in a long time. He sat up too-quickly, and inhaled deeply, shutting his eyes and trying to decide what it was.

It wasn't anything he could name off-hand, something deep and savory smelling that was probably meat, and a lot of spices that made him think of the little Pakistani restaurant he'd sometimes go to in Gotham proper, but nothing--

He couldn't resist temptation any longer and picked up the cover off the tray, revealing a small teapot and a large glass of water, and a bowl filled with some sort of stew type thing. He waved his hand over the tray, and it was still warmer than the room itself, so it hadn't been sitting out for too long, and with that small assurance, he set to.

It was too much, he wasn't able to eat more than a few bites before his stomach started twisting in protest at the unaccustomed luxury, so he sipped slowly at a cup of the warm tea, hoping he could get things settled in time to eat more.

He needed his strength-- he'd been here long enough that it was clear that either Bruce didn't know where he was or couldn't get to him, and the long imprisonment and torture meant that he was too weak to get out on his own.

Still, exhaustion claimed him before he could finish what had been offered, and he dozed off to a dream of Bruce's face hovering in the dark and brushing his tangled hair off his forehead.

***

The third time he woke, he realized that something was _wrong_ , truly and deeply.

He shouldn't be alive, he thought, or at least, he shouldn't be able to breathe properly. He had no memory of having the necessary medical care to look after his lungs, at least one of which had been collapsed the last he'd been aware, and he ignored the covered tray next to him and the smell of something sweet that came from it in order to strip out of the robe, and then out of the loose linen shirt.

He'd been fighting crime for some twenty years before spending these months being tortured by the League of Shadows, and his skin had shown it, but now, as he twisted in the moonlight and ran rough hands over his skin, he couldn't find his scars.

He had... there should have been a scar just _there_ , and there was _nothing_.

Smooth skin and he remembered what this damned place housed, and he felt terror clawing up in his throat.

He couldn't be... he couldn't.

"No," he whispered into the darkness of the cell, but that didn't make a difference.

His fingers clenched around nothing, and then he grabbed the tray and flung it against the door. "No!" he shouted. "Damn it all, I don't _want_ this!"

He didn't realize he was beating the floor with his fists and screaming and screaming until several people all in black hauled him to his feet and slid a needle into his skin.

***

Dick woke up.

He wasn't in his cell; it was too bright, and instead of being merely not cold from the robe he'd been left with, from the slight insulation of the new sleeping pad, he was warmed all the way through from a fire burning cheerfully behind a copper screen and warm blankets on a proper bed.

He tried to sit up, but he was restrained, which at least made sense. He didn't particularly _want_ to be a prisoner of the League, but at least they were making it clear that he was.

"You're awake?" someone asked, voice low and lightly accented in a way that had grown familiar over the last few months.

"What happened?" he asked. "Where am I?"

"I've had you relocated to my suite during your recovery," the person replied.

When he stood up, he was tall and muscular and familiar, but Dick had to scramble to identify him and eventually came up short, unable to place why he recognized the man's profile in the flickering firelight.

"Why?" he asked, finally, tugging at his bonds to see if there was a chance of getting loose.

"Because," the man said. "It was on my favor that you were saved."

Dick stared at him, squinting and trying to remember-- Ra's had been there, had said he was Bruce's protege, had said he would _live_ , but then... he'd said no.

He'd said _no_. "I didn't want this," Dick replied, because the alternative-- screaming and throwing things-- seemed out of his reach at that moment.

"I know," the man said. "I behaved selfishly." He shrugged and then moved away, and the sounds of items being shifted came to Dick. "You taught me that," he said after a few more minutes. "You need to eat, though, or you won't recover your strength. I expect that is something we both want."

"No," Dick said. "I don't want _any_ of this."

"Well, that will be a problem, because I won't kill you. And nor will any man here, since you have my protection. Even the great Ra's al Ghul would rather see this little... drama of mine play out than interfere."

"What?"

The man came back over, carrying a tray just like the other two, and then he took a seat near the bed, not needing to adjust the balance of the food even slightly.

Damned assassins, Dick thought, because it was better to focus on the small things, right then.

"Even the Demon's Head grows bored from time to time-- and it has been many years since he tricked me into his games successfully."

"You're saying _all of this_ was a game?"

The man laughed a little and shook his head. "No. He wanted Bruce Wayne out of his way and so he had to remove you, lay false clues to your whereabouts. When F-- when the Detective grew bored with the hunt, the situation changed. But then-- you truly remember none of it?"

"I remember turning down the damned Pit," Dick said, the panic coming out in a growl. "I remember--" he remembered being _happy_ which he would never admit to a stranger, a member of the League of Shadows, not even after a million years of torture. "I remember him ordering mercy."

"I interfered," the other man said primly, smoothing his clothing in a way that was absurdly familiar, despite the unfamiliarity of _everything else_. "You live. Some might be grateful."

"You don't know what it does to you," Dick argued.

"Once upon a time," the man said, "a man whom I loved and respected more than I'd known I could love and respect _anyone_ , sent me into the Lazarus Pit with his blessing."

"Okay, well just because you have _insane_ mentors doesn't make it a good thing! Dead things should stay dead," Dick protested. The man offered him a morsel of food, and when he opened his mouth he realized it was some sort of fried dough with a creamy butter melting all over it.

Dick chewed it carefully and swallowed, waiting for his stomach to start cramping again like it had last time, and the man carefully portioned out pieces from the plate, offering water frequently, and not speaking for long minutes.

He kind of thought he should be uncomfortable being fed by hand, but honestly, he'd had to deal with a lot worse things for the last however many months, and the man was careful about feeding him, lifting morsels to his lips but not trying to get his fingers inside Dick's mouth.

Also, from what he could tell, the man had no ulterior motives for the moment, and his hands seemed clean, so there was that.

Finally, Dick knew that he was going to be sick if he ate anymore, so he shook his head and the man obligingly set the entire tray aside.

"Death is sacred," the man said, and Dick wasn't sure if he was trying to pick up their previous conversational thread or start a new one. "But it is not absolute. What did you fear from the magic of the Lazarus Pit?"

Dick opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it, shaking his head.

The man smirked at him and stood. "And has your fear come to pass, Grayson?" he asked, and then he swept out of the room

That smirk; his name-- it all meant _something_ , but the door was already shut between them.

He had no choice but to succumb to the warmth of the bed, the warmth in his belly, and fall back to sleep.

***

Damian had not expected that Grayson would forget their reunion. It was... fine, he decided. He was perfectly content with things the way they were now, perfectly content to have Grayson unaware of his identity.

At least it saved him in disappointing him, which would of course not matter because Damian had long since left such childish needs behind, but still...

Grayson hadn't eaten as much as Damian had hoped to feed him, and he couldn't help the feeling that perhaps he should have found some meat for him, fed him the protein and nutrient rich goat meat they'd offered him in the kitchens. But then he thought about the texture of animal fat on his fingers and shuddered, gorge rising in his throat, and decided that bread and vegetables would have to do for Grayson until he was strong enough to fetch his own food.

"Grandson," Ra's said, matching pace with him. Damian wasn't startled-- his grandfather had long since made the shadows his own subjects, and could sneak up on anyone, anywhere, but he did pause a bit to ensure their strides matched perfectly.

He was taller, and it wouldn't do to outpace the Demon's Head, _especially_ not by accident.

"Grandfather," he acknowledged.

"And how is he?"

"You honor us with your concern," Damian said diplomatically.

Ra's al Ghul snorted and waved a hand dismissively. "If I had wanted you to cow to me, I would have arranged this interview to happen in the throne room. How is he?"

"He does not remember me," Damian replied.

"His Robin? The boy he _failed_ to _save_?" Ra's questioned wryly. "I doubt that."

"No, I mean, he does not recognize me," Damian said. "And I have never needed saving from my family," he added. "We are blood; I belong here."

"Of course you do, grandson," Ra's replied, putting out a hand and turning them abruptly. Damian sucked in a breath, but there was no dagger to dodge, only his grandfather's cool kiss against his cheek. "Keep that in your mind. He could never love you as your blood loves you."

Damian nodded, keeping his eyes lowered. "As you say," he murmured, polite acknowledgement.

He had learned long ago that his grandfather was never far enough away for him to safely scrub his touch from his skin, so he ignored the way his cheek burned and went on his way. Grayson aside, he had responsibilities in the League, and it would not do for him to neglect them.

***  
Damian was offering instruction to two of the youngest of their recruits, a pair of twins he had found starving in the streets of Kandahar, when two of his own men came to fetch him.

“Your guest has managed to slip his bonds,” one said, and Damian nodded.

He gestured for them to follow and wasn’t particularly concerned with the twins making it a true honor guard through the labyrinthine corridors of Nanda Parbat; Grayson wouldn’t pose any sort of threat to them, and besides, he knew they would be loyal to only him once they had been trained.

He needed every ally he had, even for as small a task as this.

Grayson was on the floor when Malik opened the door, staring blankly up at the ceiling, the green magic of the Pit visible in his eyes.

Damian scoffed and knelt to get his attention, only for Grayson’s hands to close around his throat.

Grayson tried to grapple him down, but he was still weak, and he was not Damian’s equal in this sort of combat, so Damian just let him squeeze tighter and remained where he was, kneeling over him.

Eventually, Grayson gasped and let go, collapsing back and staring at the ceiling.

“You’re safe,” Damian told him. “You’re in my suite, and for you, it is the safest place in all of Nanda Parbat.”

“Who is he?” Javed, one of the twins, asked quietly.

Malalai made a little noise of rebuke, but Damian smiled at them reassuringly over his shoulder before answering, “His name is Richard Grayson, and he is my guest.”

Grayson sat up at that, and then squinted at Damian. _“Are you real?”_ he asked in English.

Damian nodded and offered him his hand, and Grayson’s fingers laced with his and squeezed tight. _“This feeling will pass,”_ he said gently as he could.

Grayson shook his head and blinked, hard. _“What’s with the kids?”_ he asked.

Damian smiled slowly, an idea occurring that he should have had before now. _“These are new League recruits; Javed and Malalai. They will be your guards from now on, I think.”_

_”They_ what?” Grayson demanded, and Damian watched as the green bubbled up in his eyes and then, abruptly, dissipated.

As he’d expected, Grayson had more control over the after effects than most. Good.

“Do you wish to do me a great service?” he asked, turning back to Javed and Malalai.

Both nodded warily, which was good. They must always agree, but they must always consider what they were agreeing to, first.

“He is disoriented, and I do not trust any with his safety. Were he himself, he could protect himself, but as it is…”

Javed bowed slightly, and then turned to Grayson and offered him a hand.

“Javed?” Grayson asked. “I am called Dick.” His Arabic was formal and stilted, but it filled Damian with a swell of feeling that he had to ruthlessly suppress.

It would not do to appear weak in front of witnesses; even witnesses he trusted with his life.

***

Dick watched the stranger leave and wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not. The two faceless assassins had left with him, leaving him alone in the company of the children.

_Children_. In Nanda Parbat.

It was almost as sickening as the way the man’s face had changed from something truly monstrous to Bruce Wayne’s face in the blink of an eye. His fingers still ached where he’d tried to crush the monster’s windpipe, and he can’t shake the feeling he’d had when it had seemed like Bruce’s eyes had been consumed by green fire.

He wanted to be sick, but the kids were watching him, so instead of rolling over and giving in to the sensation, he sat up and smiled for them.

“So,” he said in English, and then he shook his head and grinned. “I don’t suppose you and I have any languages in common?”

They both stared at him, unblinking, with identical canny expressions that reminded him sharply of Damian.

Hell, they weren’t all that much older than Damian had been when Jason had shot him…

He shook his head, but that didn’t stop the image of Damian, slumped on the ground and bleeding out, from overlaying itself on reality for several very long seconds.

“Oh, hell,” he whispered, once he’d blinked it away. “You’re… oh.”

He stood up, and they closed in, a little closer, still stiff-spined and completely expressionless, and he said, aloud, “They want me to love you.”

It was, honestly, the only thing that made sense-- why else would the man have _happened_ to have two children the age _his_ Robin had been when…

“ _What do you want?_ ” he asked, not sure how to conjugate ‘to do’ correctly in Arabic, not sure if any of the words were right.

He’d tried to learn, once, and then Damian had been stolen from him, and it had _hurt_ to try.

He’d remembered some, in the long months of torture, picked up a little more, but it wasn’t enough, really.

Not unless-- “You probably don’t speak English, right?”

The girl replied in Arabic and Dick shook his head, unable to comprehend, and that’s why they spent the next few hours exploring the suite of rooms; pointing at things and telling each other their names in three languages.

He only noticed it getting late when Javed and Malalai started stumbling over their words, and then he ushered them over to the bed he’d been tied to, certain the much nicer four-poster with the thick hanging drapes in the other room belonged to the man, and he insisted with gestures and stringing along words in Pashto and Arabic that they get into it.

He couldn’t resist tucking them in, couldn’t resist dropping a kiss to each forehead, and he couldn’t resist smiling when they started jostling each other for space to spread out.

Couldn’t resist settling onto some cushions in front of the fireplace and drifting off to sleep again himself…

He’d been so _tired_ since the… since…

***

The man came back in quietly, but Dick startled awake anyway. He was masked and shrouded in loose, flowing dark clothing, but he made his way over to the hearth anyway, settling on a cushion near Dick.

“You could have taken the other bed,” he said softly.

Dick snorted. “Didn’t really want to risk pissing you off,” he said.

The man scoffed, leaning back into the pile of cushions. “You wouldn’t.”

“Plus, I’ve been sleeping for days.”

“That will pass,” the man replied. “The visions last longer.”

“Yeah,” Dick said. “You know I didn’t want this? That’s why.”

The man shrugged. “It’s too late for either of us to turn back, Richard Grayson. I thought you would appreciate the irony.”

“Is that what’s up with the kids then? You’re not going to seduce me with them-- I know that I can’t get them out, and you know I know that.”

“I thought it would be easier,” the man admitted quietly. “They have only training, and you can as easily oversee that as I can, and you can teach them English, help each other with League Arabic…”

He tilted his head, and even though he caught Dick’s gaze, Dick couldn’t make out the color of his eyes in the flickering light from the fire. “They’re no threat to you,” he added. “None of _my_ men are.”

“Let me guess, next is the lecture about leaving your rooms unattended and risking Ra’s murdering me on a whim?”

“He does not want you dead,” the man replied. “But he might take you back into the dungeons.”

“I’d promise to be good,” Dick said, smiling wryly, “But I’m not exactly myself right now.”

“Malalai and Javed are more than capable of handling anything you throw at them.”

“Anything the Pit throws at them, you mean?” Dick asked.

“The things the Pit shows you are all from your own mind, are they not?” the man asked quietly.

Dick shivered. “You’d know better than I would.”

“I do not know your mind,” the man replied.

Dick laid back and kicked his legs out in a sprawl. “That’s true, because if you did you would have let me die.”

They were silent for long minutes after that, and Dick thought maybe the man had fallen asleep, wondered if he should make sure he got into a bed like the kids.

The man murmured something in Arabic, of which Dick could make out only the word for ‘heart’, and then he reached for a blanket to drape over Dick before climbing to his feet and disappearing into the other room.

***

The man disappeared after that, but Javed and Malalai made sure he knew where to be, and he slowly got back into shape while they trained, working his way up from ‘walking a few feet’ to actually sparring with a few of the other men.

None of them treated him differently from the full members, from what he could tell, even though he still had the light colored clothing of a prisoner.

He taught Malalai to do a cartwheel, and earned a smile from her that he refused to let touch him where it hurt.

He had pushed the strange man who hadn’t let him die to the back of his mind and focused on trying to get _better_ so he could get _free_.

Eventually, when he was getting callouses on his palms from his escrima again, they were all summoned to the throne room of Ra’s al Ghul, and he felt something like terror swelling up in his throat as he joined the men flowing into the imposing chamber.

As one, they kneeled, and when Ra’s came into the room Dick felt only disgust for the display of obedience and power.

“My loyal assassins,” Ra’s said warmly, his voice filling up the whole room. 

A susurrus of agreement met the words, a soft utterance of ‘My lord Ra’s’ that seemed to take on a life of its own, such that even Dick’s mouth formed the words, though he hated himself for it.

“As you all know, there is only one Ra’s al Ghul, and his word is your law.” 

The whispered agreement echoed through the room again.

“It brings me great sadness to inform you all that one of you-- the _best_ of you-- has disobeyed my orders, and must be reminded of his loyalty.”

There wasn’t any utterance that time, just a sort of hot, bated silence that had Dick’s nerves on edge.

“Damian al Ghul, my grandson and only heir,” Ra’s said, and Dick’s pulse started pounding in his ears so he barely heard the next words, “step forward and be judged.”

He must have moved, because twin pairs of hand grabbed his wrists and dragged him into stillness, but he didn’t remember trying.

His vision was hot and green and full of death, but he could still clearly see the figure of the man whose rooms he was still using, whose proteges were holding him still when he wanted to run forward, screaming.

The man, _Damian_ , dropped to his knees before the throne.

“You have disobeyed me and betrayed us, my heir,” Ra’s said, bending forward to cup his hands around Damian’s face.

“I have, Grandfather,” Damian said, voice low and measured.

“Have you any excuse, any defense?”

“Disobedience is indefensible, Grandfather,” Damian replied, and Dick wanted to argue with that: blind obedience was indefensible, anything else was--

“Strip, then, and show your remorse.”

Damian stood up and shrugged out of his robe, the twin to the one Dick still wrapped up in when the draft down the chimney in _Damian’s_ suite was too cold, and then he unbelted his sword and took off his shirt so his torso was bare to the flickering lamplight of the throne room.

Two of the assassins strapped Damian to one of the columns lining the room, and a third uncoiled a long whip, and Dick flinched.

Javed made a soft noise of distress, and Dick twisted his arms so instead of the twins latched to his forearms, he was holding their hands in his.

“It’s important to see this early on,” Malik said in an undertone, glancing briefly at them before fixing his gaze back on Damian. “So they know. Our lord Ra’s always forgives, but it is not easy.”

The man with the whip leaned in toward Ra’s and then nodded gravely at whatever he was told, and then he squared off behind Damian and raised his right arm, the long whip trailing on the floor.

The most Dick could say about it was that he knew what he was doing: the long lines of red welts and blood stayed focused on Damian’s back, Damian himself never flinched to cover his vulnerable sides from a mislaid stroke.

The first time Damian cried out, there was a slight flurry of movement from the crowd, soft whispers accompanying the exchanges of things-- a knife, a scarf, other things that caught the torchlight, and Dick realized they’d been _betting_ on this. His gorge rose, and he unconsciously squeezed Javed’s and Malalai’s hands harder.

The whipping continued; Damian’s low groaning noises of pain echoing obscenely through the throne room, the sound of the whip wet and sharp to Dick’s ears, the eager attention the crowd paid the spectacle all combining to make the edges of his vision glow green and his temper rage.

Javed and Malalai held his hands.

Damian went limp before they’d finished, and Dick must have hoped that was what they’d been working toward, because he jerked with surprise when the first blow landed after that.

Still, he watched.

Eventually, it was over, and Ra’s walked over to Damian’s limp body dangling against the column, dragged a hand through the bloody remains of his back and brought his fingers to his lips.

“You are forgiven, Grandson,” Ra’s said grandly and then he swept out.

The room emptied quickly, and Dick saw that those who lingered were mostly the men he’d gotten to know, and he realized that must have been deliberate.

He wondered how much Bruce knew about the inner politics of the League, and then he wondered… Did Bruce…?

No, he decided. He couldn’t.

“Take Javed and Malalai,” Malik ordered one of the men. “Grayson will want to help.”

Dick only let go of the small hands held captive in his own when the man Malik had ordered carefully unwrapped his death-grip.

Freed of their care, Dick found himself at Damian’s side, vision going green, with no memory of crossing the room.

He took Damian’s weight while another assassin freed him, and then he shrugged out of the pale linen robe he’d had on and draped it over Damian’s shoulders.

His eyes opened to slits, just wide enough for Dick to realize what had been familiar about them-- they were cool, canny, and blue: Bruce’s eyes. His _dad’s_ eyes.

“Grayson,” Damian mumbled, but his eyes flickered closed and he lost consciousness before he could complete the thought.

Malik very gently took Damian from him and then tossed him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. “We need to get him to his rooms before anyone tries to take advantage of this,” he told Dick. “Tell me now if you number among those who would.”

Dick froze for a second, shocked, horrified, and before he could come up with an answer, Malik had nodded and started down the hall.

He’d thought maybe Malik was just being overcautious, but six assassins tried to jump them at the last turning before they made it to Damian’s suite, and Dick had to knock two of them out while Malik set Damian down and then grabbed a weapon.

The ones he took out would not live, and Dick thought he should regret that, but he didn’t because Damian was bleeding through the thin linen robe and he was hardly able to stay focused on the present.

Damian was here. Damian was alive. Damian was not bleeding out from a large caliber bullet hole in his _spine_ while Dick stood by and made the decision to send him back to his family because _damn_ what Bruce said about the Pits, he wasn’t going to have _another_ Wayne die on him, not like this, not while he could do something to stop it.

Somehow, they got into the suite, and Malik very gently arranged Damian on his stomach on his bed, ordering Dick to provide cushions so he’d be comfortable lying prone for an extended period of time.

“I need to go find a priestess,” Malik said. “I have a key; don’t open that door to anyone you aren’t willing to kill.”

“I don’t kill,” Dick murmured, hands itching to do something, _anything_ to help Damian.

“My point stands,” Malik said, and then he was gone.

Dick climbed onto the bed next to Damian and ran his shaking fingers through Damian’s hair, chest tight with emotion he couldn’t describe.

It might have been the Pit; might have been madness, but it felt more wild and less malicious than anything the Pit had wrenched from him.

Damian stirred, and Dick whispered a reassuring lie, and he sat there, hand tangled in Damian’s hair, until the priestess Malik had promised to bring arrived, until she’d gone and Malik had damped the lamps and shut the door, leaving the two of them in darkness.

***

Damian did not want to wake up, but his life was a series of things he did not want broken up only by resting and sparring, so he did.

He felt blessedly numb, which was good: he didn’t remember the count Ra’s had ordered, and he didn’t remember the punishment ending. If he’d _had_ sensation in his back, he’d likely be screaming and passing out again, because a man could only take so much pain.

Someone was in the bed with him, and he wondered for a second if Malik-- but he wouldn’t have allowed himself to lose decorum like that.

Reluctantly, Damian forced open an eye and then he let it slide shut again. Grayson. Of course it was Grayson sharing his bed-- he’d probably been using it the entire time Damian had been out, and the children would be in the other bed he’d had brought for Grayson’s use.

Damian hoped that Grayson wouldn’t wake for awhile, and he dragged himself up on the bed so his arm was pressed against Grayson’s and then shut his eyes.

He didn’t sleep again, quite. He was too used to staying as alert as possible while he was physically compromised, and Grayson’s presence, though warm and warming, didn’t allow him to relax enough to sleep.

Eventually, Grayson woke and he sat up and then gingerly peeled up a corner of what must have been a bandage over Damian’s back.

“I’ll be fine,” Damian said. “I’ve had worse.” His voice was hoarse and his throat sore, but Grayson didn’t comment on that.

“So’ve I,” he said. “But I’m still checking on you.”

Damian scoffed, and Grayson’s hand stilled for a fraction of a second, and then he moved down his back, movements as careful and gentle as any Damian had experienced in ten years.

He let his eyes slip shut, and then Grayson’s hand moved to cup the back of his head, to stroke through his hair and pick at a tangle.

“I’m really, really mad at you, Damian,” he said softly.

Damian snorted. Grayson wasn’t the only one.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked.

“You didn’t recognize me,” Damian said. A fact. It didn’t hurt. It couldn’t hurt.

“Your mother told me Ra’s had let you die,” Grayson said. “What was I supposed to recognize? You’re a man, and I lost… you were a little boy when I saw you before.”

“You… It doesn’t matter who I was to you,” Damian said. “I am the Heir to the Demon, and that is more than most have. What is the past to a man who will never die?”

“Never die?” Grayson asked.

“The Demon’s Head is immortal.”

Grayson kept rubbing at Damian’s head, and his touch was unexpectedly soothing. “I hate to ask this, but if the Demon’s Head is immortal, why does he need an heir?”

Damian knew what Grayson wanted him to admit, but knew as well that he could not admit such a thing, not even in his mind, without going a little mad the way his mother had, and his uncle, and all of Ra’s’s Heirs before him.

He would not eat meat; would not harm children. It had to be enough to keep that madness at bay.

“Come with me,” Grayson said.

“Where?” Damian asked. “Where would a prisoner of the League of Assassins go but to his own grave?”

“Well, since I’m not allowed to go _there_ , I’ll figure something out.”

“No,” Damian said. When Grayson escaped, he would not be joining him-- that decision had been made for him a decade ago, and it was irrevocable.

“B would be happy to have you,” Grayson said, sounding desperate. Damian did not allow himself to be moved: he’d spoken to Bruce six years past, and he knew that Grayson would not allow himself to know the truth of things. Besides, desperation was part and parcel of the madness of the Pit.

It made everything so much sharper, so much more real, at the same time as feeding you the images of your deepest fears and desires.

He could not allow himself to be moved.

The silence drifted between them, but Grayson’s hand stayed pressed to the back of Damian’s head. He could feel the soft, sharp jerk of his hair where it was caught in tangles around Grayson’s hand, and he wouldn’t trade that pain for anything in all the world.

_I could have been **yours**_ , came an errant thought, and he hated it, hated himself for the weakness.

His mother had thought herself beloved of her batman, and it had gained her only madness and death.

Damian was destined for both, and accepted neither.

The door opened.

“You’re dismissed, Richard Grayson,” came Grandfather’s voice, and Damian forced himself up on elbows, ignoring the sensation of scabbed flesh re-opening, and then got his knees under him, and then Grayson was hauling him up and off the bed, a steadying force to his right, and Damian risked a glance at him.

Ra’s’s dismissal had not been welcomed, and Damian weighed the risks of dismissing Grayson himself. Would it appease his Grandfather, or simply rile him further?

The decision was taken from him by a gentle laugh, and Ra’s running both hands down Damian’s cheeks.

“I bear no ill will toward my only grandson,” Ra’s said. “Appearances must be kept up, is all. Your loyalty does you and your master great credit, however.”

He smiled, and his hands drifted to Damian’s throat; a threat that even Grayson would be able to read. “You’re dismissed,” he said again, fingers tightening slowly.

Damian didn’t move.

Grayson left.

Ra’s took a seat on the only chair in the room, the one with Grayson’s bloodied khet draped over the back, and Damian sank to his knees at Ra’s’s feet.

“I’ve done you a favor, it seems,” he said, and his hands curled in Damian’s hair, a parody of the careful coddling from Grayson just before. “He recognizes you, now. But if you think I didn’t have a man on you, ready to intercept anything you left for your paternal family, then you are very wrong, Damian.”

Damian smiled up at him. “And what did the letter he found say?” he asked.

Ra’s backhanded him; the rings of his rank catching Damian’s cheek and drawing forth new pain.

“He’s never going back. You’ve brought him to live his own personal hell, and he can never escape you.”

Damian smiled.

***

Dick was awakened by the sounds of shouting, of swords clanging against swords and gunfire, and Damian urged him out of the bed, following him across the room.

“Here,” he said, pulling open an armoire and handing Dick thick, warm clothing of black and green and gold; long, full pants with pleats sewn into them that gather at the ankles, that same robe he’d woken up under the first day after the Pit; shoes, _shoes,_ when he’d been barefoot for longer than he could remember, and a sash and a swordbelt and a hood and a scarf.

“What--?” Dick asked, and Damian shook his head, abrupt, furious in a way that settled wrong with Dick, who wasn’t used to this man angry, wasn’t really used to Damian angry either.

“Put them on. Malik, I need you to get these bound tightly. If I bleed, we’re all dead.”

Damian had linen wraps in his hands and Malik assisted, wrapping him round and round, tighter and tighter until the spots of blood from the scabs Damian was tearing weren’t visible through the layers. 

Dick struggled into the clothing. It was like the linen clothes he’d been wearing for so long, but richer, more elaborate. The folds felt odd against his skin, and everything was a little too big, a little looser than it should be, even in this sea of loose clothing.

He made it work, tying the sash just as Damian finished shrugging into the overrobe thing made out of linen like Dick had always had to wear.

He turned, and something in his expression made Dick’s breath catch in his throat.

“Richard Grayson,” Damian said.

“We don’t have _time,_ my lord,” Malik interjected, but Damian ignored him, grabbing Dick’s shoulders and staring him in the eye.

“You saved my life,” he said slowly. “And I have saved yours. All debts between us are null; all ties severed.”

He leaned forward and brushed a kiss to Dick’s cheek, and then he turned away.

“Get him out the west doors,” Damian ordered, and then Damian’s honor guard, men Dick had learned to… not trust, quite, but to rely on, were ushering him away before his brain could really catch up with things.

“Wait!” Dick called out, trying to turn. The men turned him back, and kept at him, pushing him forward, through halls he’d never been allowed in, until he was leaving Nanda Parbat.

The air was thin and cold on the slopes of the Karakoram, and a helicopter’s rotors thumped overhead. He flinched away, and then the helicopter had landed and it wasn’t Damian’s men hauling him away from Damian, but men in familiar combat uniforms.

He was strapped in and the helicopter was taking off, up and up until the mighty fortress city of Nanda Parbat was invisible in the Pakistani night.

***

Amanda Waller carefully filled out paperwork from the other side of the room, and Dick sat in the hard plastic chair morosely. He hadn’t slept in days, hadn’t shaved or showered or changed either, still in Damian’s borrowed clothing, waiting for Waller to decide what she was doing with him.

He’d given up on chatter an hour ago, since it felt empty on his tongue and hadn’t fazed her even a little bit, and had given up on ever seeing daylight again months before, in a dungeon of the League of Shadows.

The door burst open, and Waller looked up, adjusting her glasses slightly so she wasn’t _quite_ glaring over the top of them.

“Took you long enough, Wayne,” she said coolly, and Dick shivered. “You’d think he wasn’t all that important after all.”

“Is this some kind of a joke?” Bruce demanded, and Dick ducked his head down; wished he hadn’t removed Damian’s scarf and tossed back Damian’s hood.

He had never expected to see Bruce again, and now he didn’t want to.

Now he was… tainted. Broken.

“See for yourself,” Waller said, nodding at him, and then Bruce was on his knees in front of Dick, holding his hands and saying his name, over and over.

“And that’s one favor you won’t be collecting on, Wayne,” Waller said. “I trust you two will see yourselves out?”

She left, but Bruce hardly seemed to notice.


End file.
